


Feeding Ducks at the Pond in Troy

by Habur



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Extramarital Affairs, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26657038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Habur/pseuds/Habur
Summary: After nearly a decade in an affair with a married Achilles, Patroclus finds himself at a crossroads. It is only when he meets a stranger at the park that he begins to question his next turn in life.Oneshot.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Patroclus & Hector
Comments: 25
Kudos: 166





	Feeding Ducks at the Pond in Troy

There’s a river outside the window. Tiny figures, down below. 

Little black dots, red dots, green dots. And boats. 

How they glide over the water, white wash of waves churning by under the wood. He imagines the sounds they make, slow and peaceful, and then the backdrop of people. Chatter, barter, and gossip. 

The voice of the city. 

Troy smells like gasoline and cigarette smoke, even on good days. But there are small windows of time, fresh after the rainfall, when the city is washed clean. And then there are the aromas of biscuits from the bakeries, papers from the newsagents, and shoe polish from the various shoe-shining stands all over the streets. But what does he know? He barely ever leaves the room. 

There are two cups on the table, the steam still rising from the tops. One has two sugars, the other has none. 

He hears the beep of the hotel key card, the resounding click. It reminds him of an old man taking out his dentures, and the thought makes him chuckle. 

Achilles barely has time to sit down, these days. Two seconds in, and he’s already halfway across the room, gulping down the coffee that’s made just the way he likes it. 

“So cold in here,” he complains, giving Patroclus a kiss. 

Patroclus closes his eyes, leans in closer, but half a second and the kiss is gone, a bird’s feather landing on the pavement only to be swept away by the wind again. 

Achilles is like that, he thinks, smiling a little and tilting his head to drink the other man in. Some people don’t know how to stay still, and you have to catch the moment with them before it slips away. Sometimes you can hold on to it for so long it feels like it's always there. Other times … the fingers brush past, the hands come up empty. 

“I like the cold,” Patroclus says. “It keeps me awake.” 

“Says the one who wears jackets in the middle of August,” Achilles retorts. He’s loosened his tie, and the top button of his shirt. The skin of his collarbone shows underneath. Patroclus bites his lip. All these pieces of the man he’s wanted for so long. He never stops wanting. 

“Dinner tonight with the investors. You coming?” 

Of course he is. Nearly a decade he’s drifted by in the other man’s world, restaurants with low lighting, shiny bar counters, leather seats. He thinks his mind is permanently fogged with all the cigarette smoke, his tongue indefinitely tipped with the taste of whiskey. 

Achilles changes his tie and picks out a dinner jacket, and the slip of skin under his collar is sealed up again.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He doesn’t talk business. But years of being around men who run the corporate world have taught him how to _be_ around them. He knows exactly what to say, or more often than not, what _not_ to say. He knows how to laugh, how to look, how to sit. 

He tells himself this is a world Achilles would never show anyone else. He’s seen all sides of him. He _knows_ all sides of him. He recognizes the difference between every one of Achilles’ smiles. He’s memorized the nuances in his tone of voice. 

Funny how you can know someone better than you know yourself. Funny how at the end of the day, it’s not him Achilles goes home to. 

He loves Troy for this reason. And he despises it.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“He’s a funny man,” Achilles laughs, as they reach the elevator. He presses the button and nearly misses it, the drink having gotten to him at last. 

“Don’t fall over,” Patroclus warns, taking his arm, if only as an excuse to hold him close. 

“How can I? You’re always there to catch me.” 

Achilles looks at him, then, and for a moment, it’s there. Fingers brushing past, grasping the moment, seizing it. He leans forward to close the gap between them, a slow burning starting at the skin of his lips. 

Achilles blinks and grabs his shoulder.  
“What are you doing?” he hisses, whipping his head around quickly. 

The lobby is empty. But, he knew that, didn’t he? Whatever follows Achilles and feeds into his caution is something Patroclus has long abandoned. Perhaps this is where they start to split at the seams. 

Achilles’ expression smoothens when he sees there’s nobody there. He glances at Patroclus, immediately looking guilty.  
“I’m sorry,” he says. 

Patroclus shakes his head at him, lips curling up painfully. The elevator dings and they both go inside. It’s silent all the way to the top.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He likes putting his legs up on the window ledge. There was a time Achilles used to watch him, framed against the glass, the skyline of the city behind him. The feeling of those eyes on him was like the drag of sheets across the skin. Slowly uncovering, until there is nothing in between. 

Now he feels the cool marble of the ledge under his feet, and his breath fogs up the glass. What a long way to fall, he thinks. Do the city lights blind them, when they tumble through the air towards the ground? 

It’s so quiet, even when he can hear the rush of the shower, Achilles wringing out a towel, a plastic toothpaste cap being popped off as he gets ready for bed. 

Some nights, they play checkers in bed, struggling not to spill hot coffee onto the sheets. He likes those nights. Everything seems to make them laugh; pieces on the board getting lost under the pillows, the people in the room next door bickering, Achilles hitting his face on the headboard when they make love. 

Tonight, they lie under the sheets, and his stomach feels tight. 

“I’m not good at Scrabble,” he mutters, thinking about the little white tiles, and how he doesn’t have all the letters he needs. 

Achilles’ hand finds his under the covers.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They’re almost late for their train back to Phthia. The station is crowded in the afternoons, and he has one half of his sandwich clamped between his teeth, hands full. 

When they find their seats, he settles next to the window again. He thinks he spends half his life looking out of windows, as though lamenting the time blurring by that the glass manages to capture. 

He feels Achilles’ foot against his, and the sensation is enough of a comfort that he remembers where he is.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Going down the hallway to his empty apartment is like walking on the bottom of a swimming pool. His movements drag, and he doesn’t know if he does it on purpose. The key in his hand is all too solid against his palm, as he unlocks the door and opens it to shadow.

The light doesn’t do anything to ease the hollowness in him. He turns it on, then turns it off again. He goes to bed, fully dressed, his suitcase left alone in the corner.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s Achilles’ birthday and he clutches the phone against his ear, as though it were part of the man himself. Achilles’ voice is smooth and low through the receiver. It reminds him of their earlier days, hushed tones in the middle of the night. Achilles telling him how much he missed him. 

“Won’t you come over?” Patroclus asks. He doesn’t have to be there to know Achilles is looking over his shoulder at that exact moment. 

He can hear the hesitation, even when Achilles says nothing. 

“Tonight, of all nights,” he reminds him. 

They’ve always made it a point to reserve special occasions for each other. Even if it’s getting harder, now. 

They don’t meet anymore when they’re in Phthia. It’s become too much of a hometown, the place where Achilles’ family lives. It’s like an invisible hand inside Patroclus’ gut, twisting and twisting, letting him know he is not a part of the scene. 

He almost expects Achilles to say no, for once. But two hours later, and he can hear the car pulling up in his street. His heart lightens when he hears the footsteps at the door. Even after all these years, Achilles can still make him giddy.  
\-----------------------------------

He always hated how quiet the hotel room in Troy was. Now, he has the record player on, the rhythm seeming to carry him as he sets the table for them. He puts a candle in Achilles’ spaghetti and makes him blow it out. It makes the other man laugh. He loves that laugh, warm and affectionate, spreading through the air like a first summer’s day. 

Achilles eats all of it, even though he must have celebrated with his family earlier. “You make it just the way I like it,” he says. 

Patroclus shrugs. He does. 

Afterwards, he watches as Achilles wipes his mouth, gets up to wash his hands at the sink. 

“Stay,” he says. 

He can hear the sigh, see the rise and fall of the shoulders. 

“Patroclus -” 

“I never ask you. Just tonight. Please.” 

The struggle is clear on Achilles’ face, for a man usually so singular in his emotions. He gets up from his chair, puts his arms around him. The music plays on in the background, the singer reaching the high notes of the bridge, and it’s as though they’re dancing. It’s as though he doesn’t have to hold on so tight to keep them swaying to the beat. 

He’s asking something else. He’s asking something for the first time. And Achilles knows it, but doesn’t know what to say. 

He kisses him instead, brings his hands to Patroclus’ waist. Their grip is firm all the way down to his hips, and he lets out a sigh - he feels the cool air coming through the windows, over his skin as he lets his clothes fall away in the middle of the kitchen.

“I can’t stay for long,” Achilles says, finally. 

He leads him to the bedroom, undoes the buttons on Achilles’ shirt, mouth coming to rest on every little bit of skin he sees. 

Pieces, he has. 

He doesn’t know how long he can take it. Achilles is like the thread holding him together. If it starts to unravel, what does he have left? 

He thinks of this as he lays down on the bed, fingernails dragging against Achilles’ back. Lately, the sex has become frantic, desperate, like they’re both chasing something that might have slipped through their fingers when they didn’t notice it happening. 

He refuses to let it stay that way. He falls asleep in Achilles’ arms, letting the sound of the other man’s heartbeat lure him to slumber.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s midnight when their train arrives at the terminal. He has the announcement memorized like a personal pledge. The soles of his shoes squeak against the linoleum floor, and they raise their coats to cover their heads when it starts to drizzle. 

The red of the traffic lights makes him feel like he’s in a dream, even though he can smell the stale cigarettes and takeaway food in the taxi. Achilles’ hand strokes over his thigh for a second, darting away when they pass a street light. 

The bellhop is the same one from before. He thinks the young man has worked here for nearly three years, now. All this time, and he still takes the mints from the check-in counter, even though he knows they will stay in his pocket until they go stale. 

They go up to their room, and Achilles looks around for a minute. He glances up at Patroclus. 

“It’s stopped raining.” 

“I guess it has.” 

“Should we walk by the pier?” 

He stares at Achilles. They don’t ever go out, at this time of night. Not anymore. It makes him smile a little, surprised. 

“Why not?” 

Even at these hours, they can still find shops open selling hot biscuits. They buy some, and take them to the waterfront, strolling along the pier and watching the night lights reflected on the surface. 

“Here,” Achilles says, and kisses him, right there in the middle of the pier. His way of making up for that night at the elevator. 

They find a bench that isn’t too wet, and they sit and eat their biscuits. Achilles catches his eye and smiles at him, and he hasn’t felt this happy in a while.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Meetings after meetings after meetings. That’s what Achilles tells him. After a while, he finds that the television is watching him, rather than the other way around. He doesn’t have to look at the room service menu to know what to order. 

The two coffees on the table go cold as he waits for Achilles to get back. 

“Sorry,” Achilles says, when he finally comes through the door. “Got held up.” 

He’s too tired to have dinner. Patroclus leaves the television on and huddles close to him. There’s a small part of him that hopes tomorrow will be better.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s late afternoon and he’s finally gotten sick enough of the room’s beige walls. He gets dressed, making sure to bring his good coat, and walks down to the lobby. 

Across the street from the hotel is a small shop with a red neon sign. He realizes he must have passed that sign hundreds of times. 

There’s a park only a street over and he finds a spot. It’s pretty, the trees blossoming white and pink over the benches. There’s a shallow pond that looks entirely too enticing. Before he knows it, he’s taken off his shoes and socks, all set to wade in. 

“The ducks might bite your ankles,” a voice says. 

He turns, startled, seeing a man on the bench behind him. The man is sitting there contentedly, as though he’s been there for hours, but Patroclus hasn’t noticed him until now. 

He almost ignores him, at first. Trojans and their strange etiquette. He’s met enough of them at dinners, shaken enough hands, to know that their pleasantness is only on the surface. Underneath, the thoughts flicker behind the eyes, judgments being formed before there is room for real connection. 

“Here,” the man continues. He reaches out and waves a slice of bread at Patroclus. 

“To distract them, if you insist on treating the pond like your personal wading pool.” 

He blinks, and takes the piece of bread before he senses what he’s doing. The man has warm brown eyes that sparkle even under the shade, and he catches the amusement in them. 

“Good plan,” he mutters, holding the bread up like a salute. He tears off pieces and throws them in the water, the first duck swimming up to peck at its fare. 

Soon, there are so many of them that he thinks it best to get out of the water. He pads over to the bench, barefooted, and takes a seat next to the man. 

“Crossword puzzle?” He peeks over at the newspaper the man is holding. 

“No better lunch than a feast for the mind,” the man replies. 

They sit in silence for a while, and he finds himself wondering when the last time was when he was out with another human being. It’s almost sad, he thinks. 

“What flavor is your soup?” he asks, glancing at the man’s thermos. It’s an old-fashioned kind, with a plaid pattern. 

“It’s dumpling.” The man unscrews it, the steam rising through the air. It smells delicious, the aroma rising around them, and he feels a sudden pang at all the hotel food he’s had to eat for the past few days. 

“I get it for my lunch every day at the corner shop. You know, across from the hotel?” 

He shakes his head. “I stay at the hotel.” 

The man leans forward. “You’ve got to be _kidding_. It’s the best in Troy, and you’ve never tried it?” 

He shrugs. “I’m not much of a dumpling person.” 

The man snorts. “You say that now.” 

He stands up, folding his newspaper and tucking it into his coat. “Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s go.” 

He blanches, wondering if he’s misheard. “Go?” 

“Come on.” The man turns around and walks towards the street, not looking back as though he’s sure Patroclus will follow him. 

After a few seconds, he does. He _was_ bored of the hotel. It isn’t like he has anything better to do with his day.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“So what are you in town for?” the man asks, as they eat dumplings at a cramped table, in the crowded little shop. His name is Hector. The noise around them is a little disconcerting, but for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t drift away. 

“Business.” Patroclus grimaces. “Pleasure. Well, either one of the two.” 

“Very specific,” Hector affirms. Now that he’s taken off his coat, Patroclus can see he’s wearing a suit. 

“You seem to have an awfully long lunch hour,” Patroclus observes. 

Hector grins. “One of the perks of being a co-owner of my business.” 

“A businessman?” Patroclus inquires. “Rare breed in these parts.” 

They laugh. 

“I take it you’re not?” Hector squints closer at him. “Let me guess … journalist launching an investigation on the recent sewage scandal?” 

“Sewage scandal? I’m glad you think me so glamorous.” He pokes his fork in his dumpling, watching the soup burst out. It _is_ good. Probably the best thing he’s had in a while. 

He doesn’t realize the sun has started to set until they leave the shop. He can’t believe he’s lost track of time like this. 

“I should get back,” he says to Hector. “Nice meeting you.” 

He’s surprised to find that he means it.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The investors insist on these awful nights at the hotel bar. At least the music isn’t too loud, but still, it grates at him. The yellow lighting only hurts his eyes in the otherwise dark room, and he thinks they must be the loudest table there. 

These friends of Achilles. Not friends, he thinks, no matter how they make themselves seem that way. It doesn’t make a difference to Achilles. He’s gotten too used to it, too well-versed to the way the corporate world works. 

The opening notes of a song he likes starts to play, and he finds himself scanning the room, looking for the band. His eyes find Hector instead. Standing by the bar, chatting amiably with one patron after another. 

He stares, wondering what Hector is doing at the hotel. The other man seems to feel his eyes on him, and their gazes lock. Hector lifts his drink in a small salute. 

“Uh, excuse me,” he says to the men, though they barely notice when he gets up to leave the table. 

He saunters over to the bar. Hector is waiting for him. 

“Co-owner of a business, huh? You didn’t mention the business happens to be this hotel.” 

Hector smiles, stirring his drink. “I didn’t want you to think you had any obligation to be polite. After all, you are a patron at my establishment.” 

“How come I’ve never seen you around here before?” 

Hector raises his eyebrows. “I’m usually at the branch in the next town over. But … my business partner is retiring, and I’m having to assume more control until they can hire someone else. I take it you’re a regular?” 

How much of a regular, the man had no idea. 

“I should get back to my table.” He glances back at them, eyes resting on Achilles, who is laughing uproariously with the others as they clink their glasses together. 

Hector watches him, following his gaze. “Yes, I’m sure you’re missed.” 

Patroclus hesitates, his feet starting to grow heavy. He doesn’t want to go back to his table. Odd, he thinks, as he bids Hector goodnight, looking back over his shoulder at him even when he’s halfway across the room.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The walls of their hotel room are soon left behind. He finds Hector in the park every afternoon, and they divide the breadcrumbs between them, laughing as they make bets on which sides the ducks will swim to. 

They eat lunch at the dumpling shop, the one with the neon red sign he passed so many times without stopping to look. 

“I always meant to visit Phthia,” Hector says, after Patroclus tells him where he’s from. 

“It’s not what it’s cracked up to be,” Patroclus replies, going quiet at the mention of his home city. 

Hector doesn’t say anything. It seems to be a quality he has. He doesn’t refute anything Patroclus says. He simply listens. 

“Well, if there’s one place there you would take a friend, where would it be?” 

He stops to think. “The railway station,” he says, finally.  
“The old one. It’s where the old post office is, and there’s a little cafe where you can sit and hear the engines. It’s where I used to go, when …” 

When he woke up to an empty bed. When he got off work knowing no one would greet him when he got home. When he walked the streets, hearing no footsteps beside him, no hand holding his. The thought of the old railway station, a place he visited to ease the loneliness, becoming a place he could bring someone … 

He finds himself smiling. Hector smiles back at him.  
\---------------------------------------------

It’s growing dark, and they leave the shop, hearing the doorbell clinging behind them. 

“Well, I should -” he looks up at the hotel across the street, the high-rise windows, all the rooms, the people inside. 

“Should get back.” He looks at the ground. His feet are heavy again. 

“You could. But you don’t have to.” Hector is looking at him, with an easy expression. No pressure. He waits. 

Doesn’t he have to? He glances at the hotel again, the doorman waiting inside. Achilles waiting inside. But when has Achilles ever been the one waiting? 

“I guess I don’t,” he breathes, nearly shocked at the realization. Hector beams at him, beckoning for them to keep on down the street. 

“Tell me,” Hector says. “What kind of music do you listen to in Phthia?”  
\-------------------------------------------------------------

Phthia or Troy, it doesn’t matter. The rhythm is the same, the golden melodies. He would have danced to this once, he thinks. It’s one of those open spaced bars with a large band, and they sit near the front so they can listen. 

They have to shout at each other to be heard, but it doesn’t matter. He’s listening to his favorite music, and he’s made a friend. 

Hector points at the trumpet player, who’s on his tenth or twentieth whiskey of the night. Mimes playing the trumpet and passing out. 

Patroclus laughs at the sight. There’s a knot in his chest that feels like it’s being loosened. He finds himself grinning at Hector, finds himself clapping and cheering with everyone else when the song finishes.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“That’s where I met him,” he says, softly, when they’re near the downtown area, where all the shops are. 

Hector follows his gaze to the bookstore in the corner. 

“It was raining, and he lent me his umbrella. Then the umbrella broke, and we were both soaked.” 

Hector is silent, looking across the street as though he can see the scene before his eyes. 

They walk all the way to the town hall, sitting on the large steps that lead up to the building. 

“I wish I never have to set foot in your hotel again,” Patroclus admits, looking at the night sky. It’s like a secret taking flight, a message released to the wind. 

“Can’t say I agree,” Hector murmurs. He looks at Patroclus, then at the city before them. 

“Where would you go, if you could go anywhere in the world?” 

He hasn’t thought of that in a long time. It used to be something he would ask Achilles, in the days of dreams that had yet to be reached. 

He doesn’t know. He tries to find the answer in Hector’s face. He still doesn’t know. 

“Maybe it doesn’t matter,” he replies, eventually. 

He wants to say something else. It isn’t some distant place that he wants to go to. It’s someone he wants to see when he gets there. But he doesn’t know if it will happen. 

Hector seems to guess at his thoughts. “We think the world is such a big place,” he says. 

“Maybe not if we can find our own little corner in it.”

“What if I never find mine?” Patroclus asks. 

Hector smiles, then, so sure of himself. “You will.”

It’s those two words, that drive away the feeling of being lost in the crowd. All these years he’s spent in Troy, and the city has never felt more familiar.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s rare for them to have dinner alone together, these days. He tries to savor it, feeling jittery in his legs and the backs of his hands. He finds the jitters are there for a different reason. His mind can’t seem to settle. 

He flips through the menu and finds a dish that makes him smile. 

“I think I’d like the dumpling soup. Something different, don’t you think?”

Achilles looks up from where he’s been cutting his cigar. It’s a new habit he’s picked up, in recent years.  
“I ordered for you.” 

His attention is away again, a million things between the two of them. 

It’s a quiet dinner, and for once, he doesn’t wait for Achilles to snap out of it. He doesn’t try to brush away the unspoken thoughts, the meetings and clients and family always lingering on the back of Achilles’ mind. 

When the bill comes, he doesn’t look away when Achilles unfolds his wallet and he can see the picture of the child. How long has he tried to pretend? He makes himself look at the picture, the grinning red-haired boy who is Achilles’ son. 

This is Achilles’ life. And all the years in the city, the years within those beige walls, does not make him a part of it.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You haven’t said much lately,” Achilles says to him, as they lay next to each other. 

“There isn’t anything to say.” 

And there isn’t.  
\---

Until the morning comes, and they have an argument that beats out all the rest. The silences, the words left unsaid, the lost moments where one of them barely missed the other. He thinks it’s all starting to come out now, and he’s not sure what’s to become of it. 

“You want me to choose, is that what it is?” Achilles growls. 

“You want me to leave behind everything I have worked for?” 

He doesn’t know what to say to that. He has never asked Achilles to choose. Deep down, he knows it will not be him. And the knowledge threatens to tear him apart, more than it is worth saying out loud. 

“How long should I live like this?” he asks, instead. He looks at the room around them. 

“Until we’re old? Until your son has gone off to university? Until there is no more time left, because we’ve missed each other at our best?”

Achilles falls silent. 

“I have given you everything that I am _capable_ of giving you,” he says, finally, and his tone is pleading. 

“Everything? You’re sure?” He doesn’t want to hear any more. He wishes he could pad his ears with cotton. 

“What more do you want of me?” Achilles demands. 

What is there to say? 

“I want you to _stay_.” It all comes out, now, even when he thinks he isn’t ready. 

“I want to know that we can have a life together. I want -” 

His love. It is all he ever wanted. 

Achilles looks at him, with a pained expression. 

“You are the love of my life, Patroclus.” 

He knows it’s true. No matter what the past years have been like, there is nothing but truth in Achilles’ words. 

He presses a hand against Patroclus’ face. 

“I know.” 

But is it enough? He used to think it was. He isn’t so sure, now.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Achilles promises today’s meetings won’t go as long as they have been. A few drinks with the clients, and he’ll be back. 

He waits in their room, toes rubbing against the carpet. He thinks, maybe it’s the last time he wants to be in this room. 

The thought scares him. 

What would he do? Where would he go? His life has known nothing but the other man. Would it even be a life, if that part went missing? 

He can smell the drink from the moment Achilles enters the door. 

“No, no.” Achilles still manages to walk straight, though he collapses onto the couch as soon as he sees it. 

“What am I going to do with you,” Patroclus chides, getting a wet towel to cool Achilles’ face, starting a pot of coffee that might help with his hangover. 

He feels Achilles grip his knee. 

“Don’t,” Achilles says, so softly it’s almost a whisper. “Don’t leave me, Patroclus.” 

He has to put the coffee pot down, to clutch at his chest. He can’t breathe. 

“Don’t leave me.” 

He shakes his head, eyes stinging. “Oh, Achilles.” 

He doesn’t want to. Every part of him is saying he can’t, that he won’t survive it if he does.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hector is in the lobby when he goes down for breakfast the next morning. He’s used to breakfasts by himself, now, but he still wishes he had someone to talk to. He smiles when he sees the other man, his footsteps quickening to reach him. 

“I’ve never seen you this bright and early before,” Hector greets, smiling sheepishly. 

“If you stuck around in the mornings, maybe you would.” 

They look at each other for a moment. 

“I’m leaving Troy tomorrow,” Hector blurts out. 

He thinks his heart skips a beat.  
“Tomorrow?” 

Hector fishes around in his jacket, pulls out a pocketbook.  
“They finally hired someone for this place. And, well … I’m taking it as my cue to pursue something else. A fresh new start, you know?” 

He stares. Some part of him wishes he knows what that feels like. 

“You’re leaving tomorrow,” he says again, slowly, as though he needs to taste the words to really believe it. 

All their afternoons together, and it’s like the window in the train. Blazing past, because he’s forgotten to keep his hold on it. 

Hector is silent, eyes sadder than he’s seen them. 

“I guess this is it, then.” 

“Yes.” 

“We should say goodbye, in case I don’t catch you tomorrow morning.” 

Catch him. He’s never been the one needing to be caught. 

He nods, feeling like the moment has already passed. He barely hears himself, barely realizes he’s already walking away. And then -

“You could come with me, you know.” 

He stops in his tracks. 

He hears Hector come up to him. Hector opens his pocketbook and pulls out a piece of paper. 

“I don’t know why I got this,” he admits, showing Patroclus the train ticket. 

“Very presumptuous of me.” 

He stares down at it, at the destination clearly printed on the front. It comes to him, images of the scenes from the train, what it will look like when they leave Troy behind them. 

“I -” 

“Keep it,” Hector says. He hands the ticket to Patroclus. 

“I’ll wait for you at the station tomorrow. If you come, well …” he smiles. His hand reaches up, as though wanting to touch him. 

He turns around, and his figure starts growing smaller as he crosses the lobby. 

“Wait!” Patroclus calls. 

He runs up to Hector. So many afternoons, in this man’s company. He doesn’t think he ever knew what Troy was like, didn’t stop to give it a chance, before retreating back inside his walls. 

He presses his face against Hector’s chest, feels the other man’s arms pulling him into a hug. 

Hours by the pond, tossing breadcrumbs. The little shop with the neon red sign they frequented, after years of him ignoring it. 

They’ve given each other something, he thinks. And he wishes he knew the right words, wishes he knew how to thank the other man. 

How does one stop feeling alone in the crowd? He thinks for a moment, that he has found the answer.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He’s not sorry to leave Troy behind. The city has meant a lot to him, for the length of a decade. If there’s anything he’s sorry for, it's that he spent so long gazing out the window at the black dots, the red, and the green. 

He can’t live his life looking out a window anymore, he thinks. 

The announcement sounds out over the speakers. Perhaps he will never forget it. After all, he’s learned it by heart. He sits at the station’s cafe, waiting for their train to arrive in the terminal. 

There are two cups on the table, and he takes a sip from his, blowing against the liquid to cool it down. 

Birds fly in to peck at the leftover bread from other tables, and he smiles, thinking of that first afternoon, when he’d found a place to be away from it all.


End file.
